


Body and Soul

by Abraxas



Series: Babylon Noir [2]
Category: Babylon 5
Genre: AU, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to 'The Deep Sleep'. The discovery of a cache of private journals provide an inside view of John and Della's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body and Soul

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** J M Straczynski, Babylonian Productions ™ and Warner Productions ™ own the rights to all of the characters contained in this story.
> 
> **Author's Note:** When I started writing _The Deep Sleep_ I didn't expect anyone else to read it; however, it turns out that a lot of Babylon 5 fans are also not-so-closet _noir nuts_. That and the fact that once they had been summoned into existence, the 1940s counterparts of our beloved characters refused to go away – especially John and Della who seem to keep themselves amused by making my life as difficult as possible. They are well suited, truly. It seems that the only way I can placate them is to write down what they insist on wittering on about. So, here it is.The 'soundtrack' can be downloaded [HERE](http://www.megaupload.com/?d=CDUSI48H)

 

 

 

_ **A note from the Editor:** _

 

_It is not necessary to point out that for the historian – or, indeed, even the lay person – the period leading up to the founding of the Inter-Stellar Alliance (I.S.A.) and the events upon the space station Babylon 5 yield unending fascination. There are few aspects of the lives of the illustrious inhabitants of that locale that have not, as yet, been documented and analysed; however, there was one incident that appealed to the more whimsical nature of the collators of these chronicles – the report in the personal log of one Security Chief Michael Garibaldi of an extended dream he experienced in the mid to late part of the year 2260.* A similar experience is recorded in the journal of Captain John J. Sheridan himself: both dreamscapes deal with events taking place in the United States of America (U.S.A) in the Earth year 1948 and appear to encompass persons who were recognisable to both men as contempories and colleagues, yet were altered in name and appearance in order to be congruent with the timeframe of Earth in the mid-twentieth century. (This phenomenon has already been documented in Volume Three of the ongoing _History of the Inter-Stellar Alliance_, under the chapter sub-heading _The Deep Sleep._) One could attribute this coincidence to the fact of two people working together who were also in one another’s confidence. However, curiosity was aroused. An archival search yielded some interesting results – not least of which was a marriage licence issued in Las Vegas, Nevada, in April 1948, in the names of Della Nicole Ramir and John James Sheridan. Further investigations led to the descendants of the Ramir family, who were generous enough to allow us access to their archives: these included the extensive journals of Della Sheridan, née Ramir, who was evidently a keen and meticulous diarist. _

 

_This discovery has led to speculation that the experiences of both Mr Garibaldi and Captain Sheridan were not merely dreams that arose as the result of outside suggestion, but rather that they were the manifest memories of previous lives. While it is not the place of these scholars to pre-suppose or support any notions of reincarnation, star-crossed lovers or soul mates, it is an unavoidable conclusion (based on years of comparison and analysis) that there are striking similarities between the persons and personalities of those people mentioned in the pages of Ms Sheridan’s journals and those involved in the defining years of the Babylon Project._

 

_The following extract, however, fulfills a more lightweight function in that it answers some of the questions from our readers who wished to know ‘more about John and Della!’ We hope that this satisfies and leave it to the lady herself to explain. _

 

_*Due to the events that overtook the station during that year, the date stamps of certain log entries have been corrupted and are therefore impossible to attribute to a temporal specificity._

 

**ooOoo**

 

_New York, April 1948._

 

It had rained while we had been in the club – the smell of it was on the air, discernible long before we reached the outside and saw the evidence: all the garish white and neon lights had been turned to watercolour reflections in the dark slickened sidewalks. The whole city had been washed and been made beautiful. The rain had taken the humidity from the air, leaving it fresh and with a bite; I opened my coat and felt it against my skin, glad of the cool after the over-heated air inside the White Star. We were not the only ones searching for a way home – crowds of people were already gathering, vying for the bright yellow taxicabs that had formed a queue snaking its way along the street. The sinuous line and blaring colour looked like something poisonous, dangerous – something to beware of in the night.

 

It was a ridiculous thought but I would not be honest if I did not admit to having, at times, ridiculous thoughts; and I like to think of myself as an honest person.

 

John cast an eye, barely, over the crowd that seemed to be growing by the second and then turned to me.

 

‘We’ll probably have more luck on the next block.’

 

I nodded and accepted the arm he offered me. Some men dislike having women hanging on their arm (not that I hung on his, then or at any point) – I believe that they see it as somehow signifying that they are tied down – but John is not that sort of man. John is not any ‘sort’ of man – he simply is and always shall be himself.

 

And I liked having his arm through mine. I leant against him, feeling the hard muscle through the thick fabric of his coat and allowed myself the indulgence of simply looking at him.

 

That isn’t quite correct. I did not simply look at him: I drank him in; I revelled in him. The way his ear curved against the side of his head; the way the residual moisture in the air softened his hair so that one lock began to slip down across his forehead; the way his eyes scanned the streets, taking everything in without really appearing to be watching; the casual, unstudied elegance of his movements. I could allow myself the conceit that there was not one part of him that I did not know. Conceit it was. Yes, I felt as though I knew him - I had felt that from the very beginning, that day a little over a week ago when I had walked into his office and found him, sitting behind his desk, as though he had been waiting for me; but there was so much more of him that was still a mystery. And then John turned his head and looked at me.

 

We were midway between two streetlamps, caught in that small area of shadow where we were hidden from any other eyes; not that there was anyone else around on our portion of street – we had left them behind jostling for taxicabs. Even if we had been in the middle of a crowd, I would not have cared. John looked at me and I was caught in his gaze, caught by everything I could see in his eyes. He lowered his head and kissed me. It was quick at first, soft against my lips; and then it changed. His arms around me were firm, strong and he kissed me for a long time, something deep and dangerous; his breath was in my mouth and I drank him in again. When he raised his head again mine was reeling.

 

And we walked on. He kept one arm around me, holding me to him and I laid my head on his shoulder. Our footsteps tapped out a rhythmic time as we made our way along. John had shortened his strides a little to match mine and I was grateful for the consideration; I object to the indignity of being made to trot along beside someone merely because my physical stature is less than theirs. I walk quickly by nature but John is much taller than I - naturally, his gait takes him further than mine does me. I had not asked him for the concession and I am not sure that it was a conscious decision on his part but the fact of it meant something to me. We reached the top of the street and it was brighter, busier – more people spilling out of doorways topped by neon signs and an unending supply of screamingly yellow taxis pulling up on either side of the wide street.

 

John’s hold on me loosened a little; he took in the scene, his eyes directed somewhere above my head.

 

‘I guess I should take you home.’

 

I thought about this. I thought about my house, which I love, and the heady scent of the plant-rooms by night and the velvet shadows that would be spread across the roof terrace; and I thought about Maya and Leonard and Drahl and possibly Duke and maybe even Nero and how, even though my home has more rooms than we could possibly ever need or use, it could be so difficult to have something as simple as privacy. And I thought that I didn’t want to go home.

 

I tilted my head back. ‘Do you know – I quite think that I’d like a drink instead.’

 

The only places open at that time of night were what John would term 'cheap gin-joints' and they were not somewhere he would take me, even if I asked him to. I knew that and he knew that I knew that.

 

‘I see.’ His eyes wandered over my face. ‘I have a bottle of champagne in my refrigerator. Actually, I have two bottles – a gift from a grateful client.’

 

‘Two? They must have been very grateful.’

 

‘One of them was Mike’s but he can’t stand the stuff so he shoved it at me instead.’

 

I don’t know Mike particularly well but when John says ‘shoved’ where Mike is concerned, I think it possible that he means it literally. ‘How long have you had them?’

 

‘Oh...’ He thought for a moment and then said matter-of-factly, ‘Around eighteen months, I think. I was keeping them for a special occasion.’

 

There was a look in his face that made my heart hurt. Under all of his charm and confidence there was something so vulnerable, so open – and the way that he tried to sound as though it made no difference to him whether I went to my home or his or left him standing on the street.

 

‘Champagne it is,’ I said.

 

He looked at me for a moment and then turned, hailed a taxi and it would not have had the nerve to ignore him. He handed me into the back of it, settled next to me and the driver eased us into the flow of traffic.

 

ooOoo

 

We seemed to be the only signs of life in John's building apart from the night doorman who was sitting in a chair beside a tired-looking potted palm, his head nodding over a newspaper. We crept past him and got in the elevator, which seemed terribly loud when John coaxed it into moving. It was just as deserted along the corridor when we reached it – there were no lights showing under the closed doors and no sounds coming from behind any of them. I almost felt as though I should be tiptoeing and I realised that I was holding my breath, just the way I had as a child when I would sneak out of bed and watch the adults in the rooms below through the banisters.

 

I released the breath and it sounded unusually loud; John glanced at me and for a moment he looked worried and as though he were going to offer to take me home again. I smiled at him; I was exactly where I wanted to be and it was a fact he would have to get used to.

 

We had not said much during the ride back to his apartment building or in elevator up to his floor; we didn’t really need to, I suppose, and I don’t think that either of us is the type of person who enjoys playing out personal scenes in public.

 

John unlocked his door and held it open for me; he turned the light on before he followed me in and closed it. A lamp was switched on before the overhead glare was turned off again, which came as a relief. Nowhere looks good under the harshness of an overhead light – and I certainly do not look my best by it. Lamplight is both far more flattering and far more conducive to intimate conversations. I would defy anyone to murmur sweet anythings while subjected to the sort of illumination that is so loved in police interrogation rooms.

 

I had recently seen the inside of such a place so I know whereof I speak.

 

John took my coat, slipping it from my shoulders and down my arms and I shivered slightly.

 

‘Are you cold?’

 

‘No.’ I looked over my shoulder at him and shook my head. ‘No, I’m not cold.’

 

He hung up my coat. I smoothed down my dress and hoped that I looked more confident than I actually felt. John turned, leant against the closet door and looked at me for a moment.

 

‘I, uh, I’ll get you that drink.’

 

‘Thank-you. Am I allowed to investigate your apartment?’

 

The idea amused him – one corner of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes crinkled. ‘That should take you all of two seconds, plaything – but knock yourself out.’

 

It is my own fault entirely that he calls me that; not that it bothers me – it has become an odd sort of endearment. It was during our first dinner together, somewhere between the aperitifs and the appetisers. I had commented that he probably gave all of his female clients such treatment.

 

‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘hundreds of them.’

 

‘Thousands?’ I asked.

 

‘Possibly.’

 

‘I see – part of your strategy? To get me to open up?’

 

He rested one arm along the back of the seat. ‘Absolutely – it’s just a game; to me you’re nothing more than a mere toy.’

 

I had not believed him; but it had been a sort of challenge, I think – trying to see who would break first. He lit a cigarette for me and I told him, ‘You know, a game is far more fun when there’s more than one player.’

 

‘Why do you think I invited you to dinner, plaything?’

 

I heard cupboard doors opening and closing in the kitchen. I had been in John’s apartment only once before: that same night but only after we had recovered Mike from the alleyway behind the Black Omega. There had been too much going on for me to have come away with more than just fleeting impressions of his home.

 

I had always been told that bachelor establishments are messy and unkempt. John’s was not: either he employed a cleaning-lady (which I doubt) or he was tidy by nature. Or perhaps by training. He had been in the military for many years and I cannot imagine that they would tolerate disorganisation in any form. I wandered around the room, examining the books and photographs on his shelves. There was a chessboard already set with a game: it was in the early stages but the opponents seemed evenly matched at that point. The most unexpected item was a small black statuette of a cat; she had her tail curled neatly around her feet and a thin gold ring through one ear. Her blank gaze was benevolent and watchful, a temple cat guarding her master and keeping an eye on his domain. I patted her on the head and heard the faint clink of glass behind me. I straightened, turned to face him. There was something in his expression that sent heat across my cheeks - I could feel them flushing. My throat tightened.

 

‘Is Bastet your protector?’

 

John’s eyes moved to the little figure and he smiled, his face warmed by affection. ‘She was a gift from an old friend – she’s supposed to bring me luck.’

 

‘And does she?’

 

He had put the glasses on the table and was busy with the foil around the stopper in the bottle; he glanced up at me for a moment and then back down. ‘Lately she has.’

 

The cork came out with more of a sigh than a pop (for which I was relieved – the sound of popping corks may be the soundtrack to a party but I have an abiding distrust of small hard objects hurtling around a room.) I took the glass he held out to me and for once he appeared to be at a loss for words. ‘Aren’t people supposed to be able to come up with meaningful lines at this point?’ John asked eventually.

 

I considered the possibilities. ‘How about, “Here’s looking at you?”’

 

He was immediately scathing. ‘No man outside of celluloid could get away with that.’

 

I laughed. ‘All right – how about, “Cheers”?’

 

He smiled. ‘It’s to the point, I guess.’

 

Our glasses sang a note against each other; the champagne was a little too sweet and rather thin. John took a sip and looked at the glass with disapproval.

 

‘I mentioned that our client was grateful,’ he said, ‘did I also mention that he was cheap?’

 

I laughed again and the bubbles tickled the back of my throat. ‘It didn’t happen to be Lon Mollari, did it?’

 

He grimaced a little but looked amused. ‘Who else? Well, at least it’s cold.’

 

‘It could be warm tap-water for all I care,’ I said; I tried to keep my tone light but I could hear the weight of my words. ‘After all, I didn’t really come here for the drink but for the company.’

 

The lamplight caught one side of his face, throwing the other half into shadow but I could see both his eyes glittering. 'I'd hate to think I'm taking advantage of you; you don't have to do anything you don't want to.'

 

'Who says I don't want to? Besides, I invited myself here, more or less; it's arguable that I'm taking advantage of your good nature and counting on the fact that you won't turn me out.'

 

John smiled again but it was a different sort of smile. Predatory. He put his glass down. 'That's a good point. Now come here.'

 

I went.

 

I have been kissed before but no-one has ever kissed me the way John did. I was strained against him and it felt as though every bone in my body were softening, melting, only his arms around me keeping me together. And I gave into him, feeling as though I were falling endlessly, knowing I would be caught. And it felt like coming home.

 

I wrapped my arms around his neck and held onto him with all the strength I had; the pressure around me increased; I could hardly breathe and I didn't care. I could feel his chest tighten against mine, his hand tangling into my hair. My head was pulled back, exposing my neck to his mouth. I shivered against him. I remembered how it felt to be held so close by him - the feel of his mouth, the taste of him, the smell of him. But this was more. My hands gripped his shoulders, his jacket bunching under them. I was shaking too much for my fingers to work properly and I needed so much to feel his skin against mine. There was a new sound then, a zip; my own, I realised, down the length of my back. I felt the air against my skin. I moved away from him then, breaking the contact that had become more important than anything else, but only for as long as it took for my dress to be eased from my shoulders; it flowed down my body, pooled at my feet and I stepped out of it, back into his arms. John put one arm around my waist and lifted me, holding me high against his heart. There was little of the gentleman left in him then; that didn't matter - by that point it wasn't the gentleman part I was interested in. And he was mine. I put my arms around his neck again and he carried me over the threshold and then-

 

And then what happened after that is between John and me and the Egyptian cat.

 

ooOoo

 

The rain was coming down again. I don't know how long before it had started but I became aware of it, drumming hard against the roof, sometimes cracking sharply against the black window when the wind caught the drops. It was a steady rhythm, relentless, enveloping us in a heavy cloud of sound as though nothing existed beyond this time slowed by the rain. The rain and another rhythm, strong and steady - John's hearbeat below my ear. I was pillowed against him and I don't think that I could have moved even if I had wanted to. His face rested against my hair and his fingers traced delicate lines along the skin on my back.

 

So, _that_ is what it's supposed to be like, I thought.

 

There had, when I was at college, been one young man with whom I had believed myself to be in love. And we had been so sophisticated and _liberated_... And so stupidly young. Although I had no basis for comparison it had soon become apparent that he had no more idea of what he was doing than I did. It was not a wholly unpleasant experience, but there was nothing about it that had made me wish to repeat it.

 

Until this. And this was how it should be. And I didn't dare look at John, not because I was embarrassed or ashamed of what we had done but because I could not bear it if he did not see it that way.

 

He said my name. So softly I could barely hear it; I wondered if he even knew he had said it. I raised my head, made myself look at him.

 

His face was different. Still the same lines that I knew so well, even then, but changed. I could see it in his eyes, heavy with the same emotions that I felt. He moved one hand to my face, ran his fingers along the curve of my cheek, down the side of my neck until it rested in the crook of my shoulder. I could feel my skin fluttering where he had touched me; I was sure he could see it; I knew he wasn't pretending not to see it.

 

He said my name again and I kissed him full on the mouth. His hand moved again, keeping my head to his and I didn't resist it. His body was hard planes under mine, unyielding. But he would yield to me.

 

ooOoo

 

I woke in a cocoon of warmth; it was quiet, only soft breathing breaking the silence. I could feel his breath light against my face. I studied him for a moment through my lashes.

 

'How long have you been watching me sleep?' I asked eventually.

 

He leant on one elbow, his other hand - warm and steady - was on my waist. 'Not long.'

 

'Liar.'

 

Hair fell across his forehead, its colour lighter without the slick coating of Brylcreem; I brushed it away from his eyes, felt its satin texture between my fingers.

 

'That's quite an allegation,' he said, serious.

 

'You're right. I'm sorry.'

 

He smiled and kissed me again.

 

ooOoo

 

I have never really cared for breakfast in bed; my sister rarely takes it any other way but I always prefer a table and a chair. I made an exception that morning. I sat in John’s bed, resting against his pillows, wearing the dress-shirt he had worn the night before - he had offered me his dressing-gown, I had declined it - and consumed the supply of toast and coffee he brought me.

 

It was all he had worth eating and it was all I could do to stop him going out to buy anything else.

 

He watched me eat and I did not feel self-conscious. Perhaps I should have; perhaps I have become shameless. If so, you can blame John – he’s made me that way. It was almost like a spell, this little world we had created. That is why, perhaps, I did not want him to leave me, even for a little while – I wanted to stay, to keep this, for as long as possible. I wondered if the same thing was in his mind - was that the reason why he watched me the way he did? As though he couldn't quite believe that I was there; as though if he looked away from me I would be gone when he looked back. Was that why his smile seemed so uncertain? I wondered how someone who was so confident with other people could be so ... awkward, vulnerable with me.

 

It might not last, I knew that. We were in a bubble of our own making for those hours, and it was possible that I was only seeing what I wanted to see. It could all be so different when we had to go back to reality.

 

ooOoo

 

I had my back to him as he zipped up my dress; I could say what I had to say then, when I couldn’t see his face. It was cowardly, I know. I had always though of myself as a strong person but I feared that in this my strength would fail me.

 

He smoothed the fabric across my back, rested his hands on my shoulders.

 

‘I suppose that everything goes back to normal now,’ I said and it took so much effort to say it and sound as though it didn’t bother me. ‘There’ll be another case for you.’

 

‘If we’re lucky. That rent doesn’t pay itself.’

 

‘I suppose not. Some other unfortunate woman needing your help. That’s how it works, doesn’t it? Each case a girl; each new case a new girl.’

 

His fingers curled, tightening on me.

 

‘Is that what’s supposed to happen? I didn’t know – they must have left that part out of my detective manual. –Della.’ His voice was low, soft and rough at the same time, like velvet that’s been rubbed the wrong way. ‘There is only one girl. Don’t you know that?’

 

I turned my head, took one of his hands in mine and pressed my lips against the back of it. John put his arm around me, held me to him; I could feel his warmth along the length of my body, feel his cheek against my hair, his breath on the back of my neck. We stood like that for a long time.

 

I linked my fingers through his and rested my cheek where our hands were joined. ‘What happens now?’

 

I heard him let out a breath. ‘We could always hop on the first train to Atlantic City and get married.’

 

Our little world grew smaller, everything spinning on its axis around this tiny spot where we stood. What were my thoughts then? I’m not even sure that I had any; I know that I must have done but I cannot name them.

 

‘Yes.’

 

He was stiff, his head lifting. ‘What?’

 

I turned, looked up at him, both my hands on his chest. ‘I said yes. Yes, I will marry you.’

 

John looked a little stunned and then came that smile, as swift and bright as summer lightning. ‘You’re serious? You are serious.’

 

I laughed. ‘Of course. Did you really think that I wouldn’t be?’

 

‘I didn-’ He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. ‘Dammit – I didn’t mean to ask you like this. It was supposed to be- It should be ... romantic.’

 

I played with one of the buttons on his shirt. (A fresh shirt, blue; it brought out the gold in his eyes.) ‘It was romantic.’

 

I don’t think he believed me. He looked at me with almost as much suspicion as Mike did the night he tried to warn me off his best friend. (That poor, dear man - I would have to find a way to make it up to him.)

 

‘You have a strange idea of what romance is, you know that?’

 

I smiled at him. ‘I had a suspicion from the beginning that you’re a sentimentalist at heart – it’s nice to know I was right.’

 

There was a rumble in his chest, I felt it vibrate under my hand. ‘Careful, plaything.’

 

‘When do we leave?’

 

‘Leave?’

 

‘You mentioned a train?’

 

He stared at me, realisation dawning. ‘Della, you can’t... I didn’t actually mean-’

 

It was my turn to growl. It was not as impressive an example as his but it was successful at silencing him. ‘I see. Well, this is a fine beginning. I think it’s ... it’s downright caddish behaviour to get me engaged to you under false pretences. If you ask a girl to elope with you, you ought to be prepared to follow through on it.’

 

John still had hold of me; his face looked wild and ... beautiful. Yes, that is the word. He was beautiful, every part of him. And he was still mine, always. Now it was for always; just like I was his. He gripped me harder. 'You really mean it, don't you?'

 

'I do.' I smiled slightly, giddily. 'There - I'm even already practising.'

 

He laughed then and I was lifted off my feet; he tilted his head back and looked into my face. 'You're incredible.'

 

I played with the hair above his collar, curling it away from the back of his neck. 'You're not too bad yourself.'

 

His eyes wandered over my face and he shook his head. 'Della Ramir - eighth wonder of the world.' He put me down. 'Okay, plaything, if we're doing this we'd better get going.'

 

'All right - but can we make it Las Vegas instead of Atlantic City?'

 

'Uh...' John blinked. 'Yeah, sure, I guess. It will take longer to get there.'

 

'I know - but it is more traditional.'

 

He held me at arm's length. 'Traditional? Have you ever been to Las Vegas?'

 

'No.'

 

'Well, just trust me on this - Vegas may be plenty of things but traditional isn't one of them.'

 

I was determined to win the point. 'Well, it is traditional in that it's the place to go when you want to get married without having to wait.'

 

'Oh for that; of course, those six months ahead of everywhere else makes all the difference.'

 

He really is very handsome when he's trying to be sarcastic.

 

'You know perfectly well that it was longer than that.'

 

He let out a breath. 'Fine - Las Vegas it is. Anything to keep you happy.'

 

I tilted my head at him, narrowing my eyes. 'Anything?' He squeezed me.

 

'Within reason.'

 

'Well, at the moment I need a telephone - may I use yours?'

 

He brought it over, set me up at a small round table next to the cat.

 

‘Who are you calling anyway?’

 

I held the receiver away from my mouth while I waited for the operator to connect me. ‘The airfield. I’m sure we must have a flight going down to Las Vegas but if not it’s easily arranged.’

 

‘We? You own an aereoplane?’

 

I waved a hand. ‘Oh, not own exactly – we’re the majority shareholder in a small commercial airli- Oh, hello!’

 

I had a brief conversation with the nice man at the airfield; there were a few hours before the next flight to Nevada, which left enough time to get some other things arranged. Like a change of clothes. I turned in the chair, triumphant, and found John sitting on the sofa with the most peculiar expression on his face.

 

‘What is it?’

 

‘Oh, nothing...’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I was just thinking that the closest I’ve ever been to this situation before is that model aereoplane I built when I was eight.’

 

I would have laughed but a thought had occurred to me that wasn’t very funny at all. ‘Does it bother you?’

 

John seemed to shake himself and he frowned at me, enquiring. ‘Does what bother me?’

 

‘The fact that- Well, that I’m wealthy.’ It wasn’t something that I ever really talked about; no-one I knew really ever did.

 

‘Bother me?’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Are you kidding? What man in his right mind would pass up the chance to marry a pot of money?’

 

I looked at him. ‘Did you just call me a pot?’

 

He smiled. ‘But with very nice handles.’

 

I glared at him and he laughed. And then stopped. And his eyes softened, darkened, and he took one of my hands between both of his.

 

‘Listen. I don’t care if you’ve got as much money as Rockefeller – scratch that; you probably _do_ have as much money as Rockefeller. I don’t care. I don’t care if you don’t have two cents to rub together, either – I don’t need anything but you.’

 

A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and thou beside me singing in the wilderness.

 

I smiled, probably more dreamily than I had intended. ‘I might test that theory. I could give it all away and we could live on scraps under a bridge.’

 

‘Ah, now, that’s where you’re coming at it all wrong.’ He pulled my hand, pulling me off the chair and onto the sofa next to him. One arm went around my shoulders, his free hand gestured expansively. ‘There’s a hierarchy to these things, see? It’s only the long-term, established bums who get the gigs under the bridges; you’ve got to work your way up to that.’

 

I settled against him, found the hollows where my body fit his. ‘I see.’

 

‘Uh-huh. You see, as newcomers we'd have to start off small. We’d have to get ourselves into a nice grubby alley in the cheap side of town, a few newspapers for shelter and if we’re very lucky maybe even a bit of cardboard box. Then we could find an old bin and build a brazier. And if we’re _really_ lucky we might even make it onto a freight train one fine day.’

 

‘And I do love to travel,’ I said.

 

‘Well, there you go – something to aim for. It will give us a purpose in life.’

 

‘Remind me to get you a harmonica as a wedding present – we’ll need it for entertainment on those long nights in the box-car.’

 

‘You can have the harmonica,’ he said, ‘I’m more of a banjo man.’

 

I rested my forehead against his shoulder and laughed until I could feel tears building behind my eyes. I was marrying a lunatic. ‘We should celebrate,’ I said at last, breathless. ‘I think we need that second bottle of champagne.’

 

His lips curled. ‘You could use that stuff to unblock drains.’

 

‘Well, we have to mark the occasion somehow; I’ve never been engaged before and I want to enjoy it while it lasts. Besides, it will give you something to do while I’m ringing home – I’ll need to have some clothes sent over. I can’t go anywhere in this dress, let alone get married in it.’

 

John looked me over. ‘Why don’t you wear what you were wearing last night?’

 

‘This _is_ what I was wearing last night.’

 

I had come to recognise that particular look in his eyes. ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

 

I removed myself from his embrace and pointed to the kitchen. ‘Champagne. Go.’

 

His eyes wandered over me. ‘You’d have made a good drill-sergeant.’

 

Drahl sounded relieved when I spoke to him; I found that somewhat touching. Maya was already out and so was Leonard – I felt a little relieved at that and then a little guilty. Maya would understand, I knew, but Leonard... He always worried about me so. He would be happy for me, once I had talked to him properly, but he would be so concerned at first and, to be honest, I didn’t feel much like going through that with him just then. I relayed my request to Marie through Drahl and he didn’t question it, although I could hear a suspicious sniff behind his words. I really must talk to him about that.

 

The champagne was still a little too sweet and a little too thin, just like the night before; it tasted wonderful.

 

‘Marie is sending my suitcase over in a taxi.’

 

‘Marie?’

 

‘My maid.’

 

‘Of course.’ He drank some of his champagne and managed not to wince. Too much. ‘Is Marie coming with the suitcase?’

 

‘No, she isn’t. I’m perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own, thank-you very much.’

 

John raised one eyebrow. ‘Oh, really?’

 

‘Yes, really- What are you doing?’

 

His fingers danced lightly across the bare skin on my back – more of it bare now than there had been a minute before.

 

‘You do realise that I’ve only just got dressed.’

 

‘Well, you will have get undressed again when your clothes get here.’

 

I tried not smile but didn’t quite manage it. ‘But they’re not here yet.’

 

His hands slipped lower.

 

‘You can never be prepared too early.’

 

ooOoo

 

‘You know, I’m going to miss this little box-car built for two of ours.’ John rubbed the back of his head ruefully and I surmised – correctly – that he had caught it on one of the fittings again. ‘It’s left quite an impression on me.’

 

Pullmans, however commodious, were not designed with someone of John’s size in mind. He is a big man, not just in stature but in himself: his personality fills any room he’s in – everyone and everything else seem dimmer, less vital, by comparison.

 

We had flown down to Las Vegas but had taken the last train back. I had never been to Nevada before; you could say that I still hadn’t been – I saw nothing of it. I looked out of the window as New York rushed towards us, its silver fingers reaching upwards, glittering in the sunlight. I sighed. My husband rested one hand at the small of my back and I felt the warmth from it spread along my spine.

 

'Something troubling you?'

 

The sunlight caught his face and he squinted slightly, watching me.

 

'Oh no, it's just...'

 

'What?' His voice can be so gentle at times, the huskiness breaking it up when he speaks softly.

 

'I was just thinking of the thousand-and-one questions we'll have to face when we get off the train. I was imagining what would happen if we sneaked down the carriages, got off from a third-class car and kept running.'

 

'Don't tempt me,' he said with feeling. He brushed a hair away from my face and then his hand lingered at the side of my neck. 'We'll have to face them sometime - now is as good a time as any.'

 

The train started to slow, jerking as the brakes engaged and the compartment rocked. The beginning of the platforms was visible. I lowered a window and looked out cautiously.

 

'Any sign of the enemy?' John's voice was muffled by the screech of metal on metal and the deep throb of the engine.

 

There were a surprising number of people on the platforms for so early in the morning - and one small knot in particular. I pulled my head back in before they had a chance to see me.

 

'Mike and Susan are there; and Maya; and Nero is with her.'

 

'Who looks more mad - Susan or Nero?'

 

I laughed. 'Actually, they all look quite happy.'

 

John looked sceptical. 'Are you sure it was them?'

 

We pulled in, great clouds of steam obscuring the windows. John picked up our luggage, a case in each hand.

 

'Last chance, plaything - want to make a break for it?'

 

'No.' I straightened his tie.

 

He leaned toward me, his lips against mine for a moment then he turned his head, murmuring something against my hair. I stared after him, my feet not working as quickly as my brain. John was already in the corridor, passing the bags down to a porter by the time I had collected my purse and caught up with him.

 

I placed one hand in the middle of his chest, looked into his face and said lightly, 'I love you, too.'

 

He smiled at me, took my hand and we stepped off the train into the New York sunshine.

 

 

_ **The End** _

 

 


End file.
